


Looks like something the cat digged out

by HOverSeas



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: #johnwatsonlives, #sherlocklives, Canon Divergence, Cats, Don't copy to another site, Halloween, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Magical Realism, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Resurrection, Temporary Character Death, means, werecat John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26998525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HOverSeas/pseuds/HOverSeas
Summary: The bomb at the pool goes off, and takes both Sherlock and Moriarty with it. John doesn't agree with the outcome, so he decides to bring Sherlock back from the dead. But, of course, there is a price.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 67





	Looks like something the cat digged out

**Author's Note:**

> 1- Halloween is not even a thing in my country but I started reading a couple fics recently that I thought were going to go this way and they didn't, so I had to write it myself. 2- Not betaed, nor brit-picked. 3- Don't get me wrong, I love cats. In fact one of mine is a tabby cat.
> 
> I have a cover! I think I'll start doing them for my next projects.
> 
> Come say hi on my tumblr or twitter.

Sherlock's official _causa mortis_ is barotrauma. In the civilian word, it's more common in turbine related accidents, scuba diving, and altitude hiking, and most of the time it doesn't really lead to death. It happens due to a difference of pressure inside the body, by gas or fluid. Most people actually know the phenomenon, as they feel their eardrums acting up during a flight. The trick is to swallow anything, even saliva, and the pressure evens.

Blast-induced barotrauma is quite common during wars. Its first ever medical description in fact came from the First World War, when it was originally thought only the lungs were affected. Soldiers with no uncovered injury would lose their sight and hearing, some temporarily and some permanently, and evolve acute respiratory distress thanks to exposure to bombs. Later on, studies realise the whole body can suffer from the biomechanics of a blast.

Air-filled organs such as lungs, stomach, ears and even joints could simply collapse, depending on how close and how long a soldier was exposed to the interaction between high-frequency stress wave and lower-frequency shear wave. Concussions are also a type of primary blast injury.

John had experienced it before. He had been deaf for long minutes after being just close enough to an exploding car in Afghanistan. The blast wind movement can be dangerous to the tympanic membrane. His hearing was right as rain soon after the incident, but it did impede him from hearing Bill Murray calling his name seconds before he was shot in the shoulder.

This is nothing like it. Sherlock had been a few metres in front of a professional bomb, which exploded right to his face. His figuratively gigantic brain had slammed against his skull, making it swell out of control. He instantly developed pulmonary contusion, which caused an air embolism that led to obstruction of blood flow from the right side of the heart to the left, myocardial ischemia, and eventual cardiac arrest.

He had been squeezed out like toothpaste.

If that hadn't happened, probably secondary effects to the second and third degree burns he had suffered on 75% of his body would have done the trick. Even for less important burn degrees, having that much of the body affected is a bad sign altogether.

John knowing the proper terminology doesn't really matter, in the end. Sherlock Holmes is dead.

-*-

He wakes up in hospital, as he's able to identify automatically due to experience ingrained in his brain, but said brain is also not so sure as to why there are no bombs nearby. He keeps expecting a loud noise disrupting his whole comprehension of reality, but it never comes. Instead there is the dim sound of a machine helping him to breath, and nurses and doctors quietly talking to him. Well, he assumes they are talking because their mouths move and there is vibration in the air, but he cannot capture any words. It resumes to wah wah wah, like they are the teacher of Charlie Brown.

He tries to speak, but he is receiving oxygen, apparently high flow rate, so it's impossible. He just closes his eyes and tries to disappear from life again.

Next time he wakes up, he is audibly literate again. One nurse asks how he feels. He manages to say 'ok', and they look satisfied. He is explained he needs a chest radiograph to look for possible diffuse infiltrates, and he needs to be awake for that. He nods, feeling like his whole body is heavy, but at least in compliance to his orders.

While they are wheeling him to the imaging room, he chins up a bit to look at the nurse pushing his stretcher. 'Where's Sherlock?'

The man just makes a "I don't know" face at him and starts talking to his colleague about something completely unrelated.

They let him do the procedure lying down, thank god, but he is still required to lift his arms and take a deep breath a few times. It's exhausting and painful. His head hurts like hell, and while he's being wheeled back to the shared room he was before, he touches the side of his face, finding bandages all over it that he hadn't noticed before, in addition to the ones at the extension of the left side of his body.

He falls asleep once more before even noticing. He wakes up when another nurse comes in to check on the bandages a bit later. 'We just need to make sure nothing gets infected.' she says with a pleasantly rehearsed smile. 'The wood lacerations were somewhat deep.'

He is also given a jab of tetanus immunoglobulin for his trouble. As she is pressing the puncture wound with a cotton ball, he asks again 'Where's Sherlock?'. 

She smiles again at him. 'You need to rest. Someone will bring you some food soon.'

They give him carrot and parsnip soup eventually. He has no idea what time (or day) it is, or what happened exactly after the explosion, and people keep ignoring his questions. Sherlock doesn't seem to be in the ward he's located, the other patients are too quiet. Well, most of them at least. Mr. Clearwater makes a scene every time he needs an examination. In general he is too tired to even think about any explanations so he just relents to resting, as the nurses suggest he does.

At one point during the middle of the night he is awakened by Mr. Clearwater calling the nurse. Apparently he is in pain. John tries to move his head to the other side and go back to sleep, but he catches a glimpse of the window. On the outside, framed by the dark, a tabby cat with purple eyes is sitting on the windowsill. John feels his heartbeat pace increasing, a scream sinks at his throat. The cat jumps down and he can't do anything about it.

-*-

It's hardly the first time he's seen one of those cats, but for starters this one seems to be following him, which is never a good sign. He knows people who dealt with these cats before, and it never ended well. You want something to happen, but you're not very clear or pragmatic in your wording, or you don't really think about all the potential implications of what you want, or you don't consider that the means of this something happening are not exactly favourable.

The cat grants you a wish, but doesn't explain the causal chain to get there. And it's never magical. It just happens.

And of course, there are no lawyers prepared to argue with this logic. What are even the laws applied? What if everything is just a self-fulfilled prophecy, and you are the one at fault for desiring something so impossible to occur without negative repercussions? 

In fact, in two different circumstances he's seen it from the front row. One had been in the army. Bloke had been half exploded in an ambush. He had been brought to John, who dedicated hours under the desert sun to save him. He managed, but at the expense of one and half leg, and right forearm. His honourable discharge at just 19 years old hadn't been received very well. At night, when he thought nobody was watching (but John had been refilling the amoxicillin stock that had arrived half an hour later), he was approached by the cat.

He didn't ask to recover his body, fair enough. He had asked in the middle of an existentialism discourse, and John can quote in his head to this day, "I want to be able to fly.". A quiet meow and a heartbeat later, half-man became a typical long-eared bat and flew away, just like he wanted.

The second instance had been with his sister, Harry. She played high stakes. Never did anything by halves in her life, so if she was to gamble with a creature of questionable existence, it needed to be something big. She had asked "Let her fall in love with me." Clara had been all over her, it was the romance of the century. Friends ecstatic, huge wedding ceremony, pouring money over a lifestyle that included fancy clothes, flat in a great neighbourhood in London, parties every weekend, exchange of expensive gifts such as engraved phones of the latest model.

She never asked about how to keep someone in love, especially after you hit the bottom of the booze. The divorce had been nothing short of grandiose.

When she gave the phone to John, he wasn't even allowed to pronounce "Clara" aloud in her vicinity.

Hence, when he finally notices the cat has been following him around, he ignores it. He refuses to acknowledge it, and doesn't dare mention it to Sherlock. The cat is there walking along the Thames Banks, from a distance. It's sitting on a tree branch outside Connie Prince's flat. It had been chilling on a cat yoga pose at Vauxhall Arches where they saw Golem. It's perched at the top of an empty carriage at Battersea Station as John talks to the subway guy about Andrew West's case on the trails. It's even burying a poop under a bush right at the outside of the Diogenes club. It sits in a shadow corner of the Hickman Gallery, staring at John, during the whole countdown a kid makes on the speakerphone as Sherlock analyses a fake painting.

The cat is everywhere, and it makes John increasingly unnerved. He prefers to attribute the feeling to the bombings case, especially after the old woman dies. He feels like a sitting duck, and he wants Sherlock to _see_ what's going on, how Moriarty is playing with his mind using puzzles, and he doesn't seem to understand what John observes, that Sherlock is not this person Moriarty is making him to be, even if he believes it. 

But during their fight John catches a glimpse of the living room window, and there, at the rooftop of the building on the other side of the street, the cat sits straight on looking at them.

So John backs off, and they work on the case.

-*-

To his surprise, Greg Lestrade comes to visit him. He is feeling extremely alienated as he learns basically some days had passed since the night at the pool. His health condition has finally been considered stable. Most of his injuries were secondary to the explosion anyway. His initial breathing difficulty lasted only the first two days, mainly impact wind-induced. Regular chest films were negative for pulmonary PDI, which was the biggest risk. He shows no signs of developing late pneumonia.

His lacerations were caused by the changing stalls he had been leaning against when the bomb went off. His whole left side had been inflicted, and a piece of wood had wiggled its way into his side. Not deep enough to reach organs, but the skin had been badly torn. Luckily for him, the stall curtain had fallen over his body which mostly protected him from burning injuries.

The problem is, as time passes, he progressively goes from agitated to annoyed to furious. He knows it is no good to snap at the medical staff, but he can't help it when he knows he's being deliberately kept in the dark. Sherlock is not in his ward, so he deduces his condition is more serious than his. He hadn't had the stalls as coverage, so perhaps he is in the burning victims area? It wouldn't be a pretty sight for sure, but John doesn't care, he just wants to see him.

So Greg coming over, while unexpected, is very welcome. There is a portable chair besides John's bed, and a nurse has just taken away his breakfast tray, so he is in a dignified sitting position at least.

'Hey mate, how are you doing? Sorry I couldn't come before, I needed to wrap up the bombings case.'

'I'm way better actually. Ready to get the hell out of here. What happened?'

'Thought you'd ask.' he takes a folded newspaper from his jacket pocket. The picture is of the gymnasium where John was taken to, the pool where Carl Powers died. 'Look. The whole place exploded. They found a bunch of snipers trying to run away, but most of them were somehow injured or unable to leave the wreckage. They are all locked waiting for judgment. Firefighters made a whole strategy to take you out of there, the ceiling fell on you, but the stalls you were under mostly protected you from the impact. Moriarty now, that was a piece of work. Piece literally, there was not a single body member which was whole. Blown up to bits. We only identified him because of the snipers' testimony, which matched each other.'

John frowns at the headline, trying to find the details. 'Couldn't Sherlock help? Or was he too debilitated? Where is he staying by the way?'

Greg visibly swallows and puts away the newspaper. 'I'm so sorry, John.'

His head snaps on Greg's direction. 'What?'

'I… Ahm, well.' he grips his own nape, looking around, then sighs. 'He was already dead when the help arrived.' he answers in a very low voice. 'I actually went to his funeral yesterday. It had to be delayed for the coroner report, since it was a criminal case.'

John rests back against the bed, not looking at Greg anymore. 'John, I'm really sor-'

'Yeah, I heard you the first time.' he cuts off drily.

'Do you need anything at all?'

'No.'

Greg stands awkwardly, waving his arms, clearly not knowing what to do. 'I have to get back to work then. Give me a call when you are discharged.'

John doesn't answer him, so he leaves. Closer to lunchtime, Mrs. Hudson comes over. John had been dreading this would happen, so he pretends to sleep the whole time. He can hear her sniffing, so he counts backwards from 100 to distract himself. She also leaves.

Mycroft comes after her, but John takes one look at him, wearing a black three-pieces suit, and fakes having a fit, so a nurse expels the tosser from the ward to attend to John.

Right at the end of visiting time, when John doesn't think anyone else would try to come, Sarah arrives. 

'Oh my god, John! I was so worried! How are you?'

He side-glances her. He hadn't given a single thought about Sarah Sawyer. He doesn't want to start now.

She doesn't sit at the foldable chair, preferring to stand over his bed, touching his arm. Moves to hold his hand. He stares at it instead of looking at her.

'It was all over the news. I couldn't believe it! I was thinking you had stood me up, I was actually angry when I went to sleep, then in the morning when I heard about it I almost beat myself up. I should have checked on you, of course something had happened.'

She holds his hand tightly, and her hair sways into his vision.

'I also heard about your flatmate. My condolences.'

This makes John look up at her. 'Your condolences?' he asks, confused. 'Why are you giving me your condolences? _Why are you even here?_ '

She releases his hand, takes a step back. 'Keep your voice down.' she says, not talking afflicted anymore. 'I understand you're going through a lot-'

'You don't understand anything.' he definitely doesn't keep his voice down. 'I don't want you here, if I could never see your stupid face or your pathetic boring clinic again I would jump in _joy_! Can you please **fuck. off?** '

She presses her lips thinly, turns around and leaves without looking back.

The nurse that checks him out last for the night says he'll probably be discharged in the morning. They are all wary of him after being the target of his anger for the last couple days, so he seems surprised that there's no snapback comment this time.

So at night, when the lights are finally out and Mr. Clearwater is given an elephant dose of morphine to sleep (and John has been aware for a while that he does it on purpose), John looks up at the grey ceiling not holding back the tears that flood his eyes immediately, streaming down his face. He hiccups, forcingly keeping his mouth closed as his nose overworks to keep oxygen flowing in. He throws his clenched his fist over his face and cries for a long time, alone in the dark.

-*-

He supposes it makes him a crap person, but he tries to keep his relationship with Sarah out of convenience if anything. He knows that _she_ knows he mostly wants to get off with her, and after coming back to England everything going on (or not) in his life contributed to having a very long dry spell. She's a smart woman, with a kinda funny bone in her, and seeing him getting increasingly frustrated by her push and pull technique must be hilarious from her point of view. And yet, he reached the sofa so the bed must be coming soon. After the whole chinese circus kidnapping episode, the fact that she keeps it going is a good sign of her resilience to people like him.

So when she gives him a positive to come over, he doesn't hesitate. Everything sounds nice this evening, prospective sofa make-out session on the way, with potential to become full shagging. Sherlock promised to get the milk, no madman is threatening to bomb innocent bystanders for now. He can do this, he thinks as he struts feeling content on the way to the Tube.

Which of course makes him completely vulnerable to the sudden blow on his temple that makes him dizzy enough to stumble. He can't see where it came from or how distant he is to the ground, and on the next moment his head is covered with a umid cloth, and as he is starts to breathe the familiar smell of chloroform, he asks himself "Why did I think I could have a peaceful day in my life?".

He's not sure how long it has been, but he finds himself in a sort of changing room. There are open showers on his right, a few toilet stalls on his left. He is laying down on a cold ceramic bench, and his blood pounds hard against his temples. The place is empty, and he can see a door on the other side, but something, probably experience and raw gut feeling, tells him it's not unwatched from the outside.

He tries moving. His wrists are bound to his back and his ankles are tied together. Marvelous. He escaped from dying in Afghanistan, comes back to London looking on the bright side that at least he will be able to shag a woman again, does not manage a shag before he suffers attempted murder once again. 

And then, from one of the bathroom stalls, a cat jumps out.

It's not any cat of course, it's the tabby cat. As they walk closer, John can see their purple eyes gleaming at him. They stop in front of the bench and do a cat yoga pose to lick their back paw clean. John watches and watches and thinks, hell, it seems he's going to die anyway.

'Ok, what do you want?'

They stop with the leg mid-air, tongue bleping out for a second, before lifting their head to look at John. They then move to a sitting position, bending their head to the side a bit as if asking _What do_ you _want?_

'I want to get out of here, obviously.' he answers, petulant. 

The cat makes a clicking sound. John never owned a cat, but one of his highschool girlfriends did. Tessa hated communicating clearly what she wanted (pot and kettle he supposes), preferring talking indirectly around the subject, or giving long-suffering sighs when something was annoying her, and left him to find out what was the problem sometimes for days. But her parents worked in a hospital and were never home after school, which meant they could have a lot of fun at her house while being unsupervised.

She had a ginger cat that would sit on the porch for hours watching the birds and bugs. Sometimes a moth would land on the wall, and the cat would stand under it, staring unwaveringly, making a clicking sound that seemed like a siren song, because if you blinked, the moth would be already in the cat's mouth.

The tabby cat seems to think he is a prey somehow? Before he can ask, the cat turns to look over their shoulder and then runs and climbs the wall of the stall, perching on top of it just out of the sight of the door opening. A short blond woman enters carrying a gun and a huge green parka, telling him with her eyes that she's not here to play jokes with him. Right behind her, … Jim the gay boyfriend?

'Oh, I revel the look of surprise in a sheep's face when they see one of them was a wolf all along. Isn't it delightful, Mary?' he singsongs. John hated the sound of his voice when he tried to flirt with Sherlock, and still hates it now. He barely knows Molly Hooper (he's not even sure she herself remembers his name when he's next to Sherlock), but he has no idea what she saw in him.

'Now, Johnny, we are going to play a little game, aren't we? Sherlock is coming soon, so we are making a surprise for him.'

He takes a wire from his pocket, and installs it around John's ear. 'You are going to listen to this, and repeat everything I say.' he taps his own ear to signal the twin device he has.

John snorts. 'And why would I do that?'

Jim makes a face not much different from a kindergarten teacher reprimanding a kid. 'Because then you will, _poooof_ ,' he gestures with his fingers. 'blow up. Won't be pretty. I bet Sherlock dearest would get upset, he does seem attached to his pet.'

He snaps at the bodyguard, and she brings the parka over, putting it over John's shoulders before cutting the tie around his wrists and maneuvering them herself into the sleeves. The parka is heavier than it should be, and a stolen glance downwards explains why: it's full of explosives.

He closes his eyes for a second before looking up to the ceiling, trying to regain composure. The gunwoman kneels to cut the tie around his ankles, while Jim watches him with a satisfied smirk. At the corner of his eye, he sees the cat still perched on the top of the stall wall. They stare at each other, and John motions his head in Jim's direction as subtle as he can.

'Get rid of him.' he says quietly.

The woman stands back up, holding the gun like a professional, frowning at him. Jim just nods mockingly 'Oh, I will.'

She pushes him to stand and walk in front of her while Jim stays behind, and only John sees the purple eyes glow electric blue for one moment, and disappear.

-*-

Mrs. Hudson cries on the spot as he sets his feet back on 221. He basically flees the scene and locks himself upstairs. He feels marginally bad that he can't be supportive of her, even if it's just giving his shoulder for five minutes, but he's not a support even to himself at the moment, so he opts out of the mourning rituals.

He doesn't call Lestrade back as he asked, in fact he doesn't even have a phone at the moment. The one Harry gave him had been in his coat, which was removed out of him when he was captured. It probably blew up like everything else at the gymnasium.

_like Sherlock_

He just lies on top of the duvet looking at the ceiling. Every now and then he moves a little, of course a human body is not able to sustain the same position for long periods of time. His lacerated side still hurts a bit, which constrains the positions he's able to pull off. Sometimes he closes his eyes, being still for so long makes your body start to trick you into sleep. But as soon as he starts to drift, the pool explodes behind his eyelids, so no luck on that. He is left staring into empty space.

At some point fatigue starts to win him over, and he enters a light sleep. He's not overly conscious of what he is dreaming, he knows Sherlock is there as usual, but a loud bang interrupts the train of thought and Sherlock blows up, body parts being thrown in all directions. He opens his eyes with a sharp intake of air, feeling paralysed, muscles locked tight. Then he realises the loud noise is actually Mrs. Hudson knocking on the door.

It takes a few moments of rapid pulse, but he finally answers. 'What?'

'It's been a while you've been there, dear.' her voice comes muffled from the other side of the door. 'I'm making myself tea. Do you fancy a cuppa?'

'No.' he falls back in a relaxed manner, as much as possible given the circumstances.

There's a pause after the dry response. 'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

He hears her shuffling back down the stairs.

Nausea finally gives in after it's already dark outside and inside, and he goes down to the living room. He uses the toilet, drinks a glass of water, and collects an expired canned soup he finds at the cupboard behind a jar of pig's fetus. He manages half of it and goes back to bed.

It's a horrible night all along, he keeps waking up, he is still in moderate pain, his stomach is not happy with his recent choices. At some point around 2am he decides to fetch his laptop and _do_ something. Not being a fan of social media and wanting to avoid all the news, he opens his blog to make a new post. He stares at the empty block of space for what seems an eternity before typing **He was my best friend and I**. He stops himself and deletes the post.

He goes to the kitchen again to finish the can of soup, left on the counter. An hour later he is facing diarrhea in the bathroom, which is a great improvement because at least he has a reason to stay up all night and be distracted by it.

He goes back upstairs just before dawn, carrying a bottle of water and canned mackerel, which at least is not expired. He intends to keep his moping routine. Around mid-morning Mrs. Hudson knocks again on his door and he doesn't answer this time, pretending to be asleep.

'Mycroft is here.' she informs the wall of silence, as if it's important information for him. The last alive person on Earth he would like to see is Mycroft. Scratch that, perhaps it's Sarah.

He guesses the man will leave after being denied John's presence, but John hears some commotion downstairs. Other people's voices. He frowns and opens the door just ajar, trying to hear what's happening.

'Leave the violin, I'll take it with me.' Mycroft tells someone. 'Yes, his bedroom is the last of the corridor, you can get everything from there.'

John throws the door open and bolts downstairs. Mrs. Hudson is watching from the kitchen doorway as a couple men with some cardboard boxes go around the flat, collecting stuff. Mycroft is near the window, where Sherlock's music stand usually is located, packing away music sheets that have been lying about. Not-Anthea holds the violin case with one hand and types on her Blackberry with the other.

' _What do you think you are doing?_ ' he roars. His head is buzzing lightly. 

Mycroft looks up. 'Ah, John. I've come to take Sherlock's things. I'm sorry we couldn't talk earlier.'

'No. No, no, **no**!' he runs to Sherlock's bedroom, where one man had already taken the framings out of the wall and packed, and the other has messed up Sherlock's sock drawer. 'Get the fuck out, right _now_!' he yells at them. 

The men look at him in confusion, not knowing how to proceed. He surges forward and removes the box from the closer one's hands, throwing it over the bed. The second one raises his hands in a placating attitude a second before John closes the drawer on his fingers. 'Don't doubt for a second that I'll get physical if you don't leave the room this instant!'

Mycroft appears at the door, John jumps to him and grabs his collar. 'You go away and take these people with you.' he growls right at his face, personal space be damned. 'Don't touch his things, do you hear me?'

'John, please...' he can hear Mrs. Hudson had also come after the brother, but John is completely focused on the man in front of him.

Mycroft opens his mouth and then closes it, looking down and pressing his lips thinly. 'We'll talk during another opportunity then. Gentlemen, we are leaving.'

John lets him take a step back from his grip, and pushes him out of the way, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's pleas and going back to the living room. Not-Anthea is curiously observing the scene for once, but John marches right over and takes the violin case from her, holding it tightly against his chest. 

She and the other guys leave, and Mycroft comes right after, with Mrs. Hudson in tow. 'There's a new phone on the kitchen table.' he tells John. 'As I understand you lost yours. Call me when you feel ready.'

'Ready for what?' he spits back.

Mycroft just raises an eyebrow and goes away silently. Mrs. Hudson approaches the door carefully. 'John, I've been thinking… Do you want to visit his grave?' 

She asks this while looking at him pitifully, and John hates it, _hates it_. 'No, I don't want that. And please don't let Mycroft or anyone else in my flat without my permission.'

'Of course, dear.' she smiles sadly and goes back to her own flat.

John keeps his territorial stand in the middle of the living room, armed with the violin case, until he can hear nothing but his own heartbeat. The only one in 221B at the moment.

-*-

Almost a fortnight after Sherlock Holmes blows up and has the gall to leave John on his own in this world, he gets up and goes out for the first time. Not before locking the door to the living room and Sherlock's room, unless Mrs. Hudson has some funny ideas. He hopes everyone just respects his wishes and stays the hell out of their flat.

He doesn't know where to start, so he tries to go to all the places he's seen the tabby cat before. Little fuckers. He should have known you can't trust them not to twist the circumstances with malicious intent. It must amuse the lot, they must have a wicked cat convention to meow about all the idiots they granted wishes while adding a trick at the end.

He searches the area around the Janus Cars company. He goes back to the planetarium, even buys a ticket to enter but as soon as the supernova projection starts he nopes out. He visits the neighbourhood where Alex Woodbridge lived, and the Hickman Gallery, and the Thames banks area where his body was found. 

He takes the subway making stops at the places where Andrew West's body fell from a train, the flat where his brother-in-law killed him. He walks around Hampstead, feeling like maybe this is it. That maybe the cat was hanging around the murderer's egyptian cat, exchanging tips. The brother's cat hadn't been the murderer as John had thought (being biased by the context he had been in), but this one with purple eyes feels like a murderer.

Or at least is what he says to himself, to not think about how he was the one who said _get rid of him_ and didn't impose any conditions.

It's late afternoon, he hasn't stopped for lunch, and feels tired. All he wants is to lie down and be miserable about his life. He walks away from Hampstead after circling the blocks for forty minutes, not wanting to go back home having failed. It doesn't change anything, so eventually he gives up. He calculates in his head the pros and cons of getting a cab instead of the subway in rush hour, and decides that he is convalescent and depressed, he deserves to take a taxi today.

He walks to a nearby park where he knows there are some parked taxis. He turns a corner and almost steps on a tabby cat, that hisses at him. 

'Oops.' he jumps back. The cat looks up at him, blinking their purple eyes.

He stands still, begging internally for the cat not to run away. Is it the same one? Must be. Please let it be.

The cat moves out of their fight-or-flight position and sits closing their eyes, licking their paw and using it to clean their head. John waits. The cat opens a slint of one single eye at him and gives a little inquisitive 'Meorh?'.

He squats slowly. 'Sherlock was not supposed to die.' he informs the cat, who opens both eyes now. 'How can we fix this?'

The cat does the clicking noise, and that's how John knows he has their full attention.

'Now, what I want is to bring him back. But nobody should die in his place. Is it possible?'

Purple is such an interesting colour. Could be read as vibrant or gothic, depending on the person. Sherlock looked great in purple. Even in a sexual way, John can admit. The purple irises are intent on him, and suddenly they are not purple anymore but black, as the pupils dilate and occupy the whole eye space. The cat's tail lifts up in the air as they stand up. They give a little step forward, waving their head towards John.

His hands are holding his own knees for the squatting position. He takes one out and carefully touches the cat nose with a single finger. The cat smells the finger and bit-bites it. It doesn't hurt, but John knows they could if they wanted to. Instantly. He nods.

'I understand. I pay for it, don't I?'

Cat releases John's finger, and goes away. He follows them for a whole block, but they turn a corner and disappear entirely. 

At least now John knows what to do.

-*-

After a whole week avoiding Sherlock's bedroom, he enters, fully equipped with cleaning material, and closes the door behind him. Sherlock's room is surprisingly neat for someone who lets their living room in such a state that it is possible to hide stuff in plain sight and nobody will notice it. 

John vacuums the whole carpet, including under the bed. He opens the window to allow fresh air to enter. He disposes of the small garbage bin that sits in a corner, changes the whole bed linen, separating the dirty one for the laundry basket. He uses an umid cloth to take remaining dust from his bedside table, dresser, framings and even the cupboard of collections. The room is left spotless.

He cleans the whole bathroom until it smells of bleach. He finds it oddly comforting. Sherlock's used towels are still there, so he adds them to the laundry pile. 

Kitchen and living room are the biggest frogs. He starts with the kitchen since it leans on the practical side. Fridge first: everything that seems expired or rotten goes to the rubbish bin. Experiments… he's not so sure about the stage of those, but it's been two unsupervised weeks, so they are probably spoiled anyway. Bottles of chemicals are left where they are, body parts starting to get green go to rubbish. The ones in the freezer he leaves untouched, surely they will have some purpose later.

Mrs. Hudson actually took away anything that was on the table when he was in hospital, but she wasn't aware of the pig fetus inside the cupboard. It's in formaldehyde, so John just moves it from behind the coffee pot to the shelf designated for experiments. He scrubs the fridge and the sink with sanitiser, and the table with water and soap. Later he will go out for groceries to restock the kitchen with actual food. He needs to buy some apparatus anyway.

Living room… not much of biohazard, but John braces himself. It's more intimate. He probably wouldn't manage to throw anything away if he had to. He puts Sherlock's women magazines in the corner pile where they belong. The scattered books are collected and reorganised in the shelfs following Sherlock's indexing method, first by general area of study, then topic, then colour palette, and last alphabetical order.

All the papers over the desk he divides in categories, and by cases. Many of them refer to Moriarty, across different categories, but John simply puts everything together inside a chunky plastic file, and moves to the archived section. He vacuums and dust, positions Sherlock's favourite pillows on the sofa, and even uses a pine air freshener.

He's not expecting the cleaning spree will last long. The point has been that now 221B is ready to be messed up again from square 1. 

He's counting on it.

-*-

The cemetery closes at 17:30, everyday. He prepares a small suitcase with some plastic water bottles, a shovel and pickaxe heads, and the stick necessary to use them. At 17:00 he enters and hides in the graveyard until closing time, making sure everyone has left before moving from his spot. It's the first time he has come to see Sherlock's grave, and if everything works perfectly, it will be the last.

He just makes sure he is in front of the right stone, and avoids at all costs thinking too much about the name and dates printed on the black marble. Kneeling down, he opens the suitcase, and collects a water bottle, pouring it over the space in front of the grave. He pats the sand to make sure the soil is not over saturated, and removes all the fake grass covering it. Luckily it doesn't seem to be clay, but he can't say that for sure when he is deep down. 

After finishing this task, he sits down and waits. The night encloses him rather quickly after that, making him safer from potential onlookers, and perhaps from himself. He has two bottles saved for later use. While waiting, he uses the portable scale in his pocket to measure the size he will need to open, and marks the lines on the sand with a white spray aerosol.

In an hour or so, it's dark enough he has to turn on his new phone torch. He props it on the black stone, pointing it towards the space at the front. Now it's the hard part. He attaches the stick to the pickaxe head, and propels it against the umid soil. He makes several holes, which takes him almost 20 minutes to do it properly. The soil is not sticking to the tool, which means he probably used the right amount of water.

Next he disattaches the pickaxe to put the shovel head in its place. Taking a deep breath, he starts digging. And digging, and digging. Nobody realises how much work it is to open a grave. He gets all sweaty and definitely itchy at his back. His face picks up the dust coming out of the exercise, and combines with the sweat dripping from his forehead, resulting in a disgusting muddy layer over his face. Sand and small pebbles manage to make their way inside his boots, scratching uncomfortably his feet.

Every now and then he has to stop and recover his breath. One of the water bottles is positioned by the side of his work place so he can take a sip. His arms start to tremble and his shoulders hurt like hell, a headache begins to crawl up at the front of his skull, and he can only continue out of spite and adrenaline.

At around 10pm according to his watch, a shadow passes quickly through the torch light pointing to him. He looks up from inside the hole, and the tabby cat is a dark loom on top of the pile of sand by the side of the gravestone. Their purple eyes are the only thing that denounce them, shining against the dark. He rests the shovel against his feet and straightens up to stretch his back, feeling like it perfectly intended to be bent in this position forever by now. At this point he is already deep enough to be completely covered inside the hole.

'Am I running out of time?' he asks the cat, cleaning some sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand.

'Mhrow.' is the short answer. He shrugs and keeps digging. He's sure he's almost done.

Indeed, in 15 minutes the shovel finally hits hard wood. 'Oh my god.' he whimpers in relief. He runs to take out the remaining thick of it, and the coffin is uncovered. Lucky him, it's not a heavy fancy casket. A closed coffin makes more sense given the nature of the death. The corpse must have not been a suitable sight for anyone but the mortician. That means the lid, however, only opens completely, which is inconvenient for him to sit on top of it.

He palms the edge of the hole for the pickaxe head he left there, exchanging again with the shovel. His own water bottle is already empty and he tosses it in the general direction of the suitcase. The second bottle he brings inside, just as the cat jumps over the coffin, in front of him.

He kneels back down and sits on his heels. As he stops making physical effort, he's finally keeping up with his heartbeat, hammering quicker than it should against his chest. He can barely pull a breath through his nose, and his mouth is open to try to compensate. He holds the pick firmly with both hands.

'So? Can you do it?' he asks the cat.

They are no more than a shadow, since the light doesn't quite reach inside the grave hole. They stick their paw on John's direction and touch him once on his hand. John offers them the hand in question, and without warning the cat claws him, leaving a three thin red lines trail on his skin. Seconds later the blood comes up, just staining the skin as it is a very shallow wound. 

He almost misses it, but the purple eyes suddenly glow electric blue. It lasts a second, and the cat jumps out of the hole with a _prrr_ , leaving John behind. And then, a moment later, he hears it.

_thump_

_thump thump_

Gathering up whatever energy he still has, he throws the pick at the middle part of the coffin. After a couple blows, the wood breaks, and it's easy to just complete the line that makes it possible to open just half the lid, that he throws sideways carelessly.

Sherlock is there, more pale than he ever had the right to, eyes wide open, palms thrown up in his chest, which is heaving wildly. John stops and they look at each other for several moments, each on their own journey relearning how to breath. John shoves the pickaxe again at the side of the open lid of the coffin, until he's able to pull it out completely, and throw over his head to the hole opening.

Sherlock puts his hands down to push himself to a sitting position. John drops the pickaxe aside, and uncaps the water bottle, bringing it to Sherlock's lips, who gulps it generously.

Finally, he looks around himself and then frowns. 'John?'

Hearing the baritone again is what does it to him. He drops the bottle and grabs Sherlock, pulling him into his arms tightly. He feels Sherlock doing the same but shyly. He buries his nose on Sherlock's squashed hair, murmuring. 'Everything will be ok, now. I've got you.'

-*-

10:27pm was the exact time Sherlock Holmes had ceased to be dead. It's been officially 24 hours now.

John hadn't known how unhappy he had been until it was all given back to him. No, scratch that. John had been in a similar state when he came back to London, and Sherlock showed him the light. Sherlock had been everything he needed, even if it meant developing a kinda unhealthy relationship to him rather soon. John doesn't like to think of himself as co-dependent but… if someone makes your blood boil like you've never been alive before, you'd want to stay close to that person, wouldn't you?

The difference is that at the time John didn't know such a human being existed. He had thought he was doomed to a mediocre life and lukewarm relationships. He was shown he could do so much better, and then a psychopath jerk took it away from him. John had seen it coming, this Moriarty fella stealing Sherlock's attention, involving him in a dangerous game for everyone. 

John had tried to warn him, all while thinking please, _please_ don't go where I can't follow you. Heck, he tried to make Sherlock run and save himself, but he didn't listen. And look how that ended.

But everything is fine now. Sherlock is back. John's life has a reason again, although he shouldn't say that to his therapist, because she would scold him. Sherlock lives means John Watson lives.

However.

The three scratches on his hand are not showing any sign of receding. Since they are shallow wounds he had assumed in the morning they would be gone. But they are still there, to remind him something will happen. That he has a price to pay for having a wish granted. He's not sure what it is, and the anticipation is eating his stomach from the inside out.

So it's no surprise to him when it comes at 10:27pm. He has made sure Sherlock has retired to his bedroom after a day of following him around the flat. He is stripping to his pyjamas when he notices the scratches glowing. Purple. Ish.

And then his body is… doing something. Acting generally weird. He opens the wardrobe door to look at the full-length mirror at the inside of the door. A shiver runs through his whole frame, and an involuntary hum grows at the back of his throat, like an engine. His shoulders hunch painfully all of a sudden, and he falls to his knees. But his weight is quite light, so it doesn't make the thump he expected. In fact, he feels lighter and lighter and lighter.

He looks at the mirror again, and his reflection doesn't show the John Watson he knows. It shows a light blond cat with blue eyes and long whiskers. He processes the information for a second before his brain shuts down.

-*-

'Are you… cooking?'

'Yes. Wanna help?'

Sherlock shrugs but washes his hands and hovers beside John on the counter. 'What are you making?'

'Chickpea curry and couscous with legumes. You can chop the vegetables, there you go.'

Obviously he would be good with knives, John thinks watching him rapidly transforming a whole onion in small same-size cubes. Sherlock seems to possess dexterity in all manual activities. John moves around him with a hand on the small of his back to take a look at the recipe on his phone, lying on the kitchen table.

As he confirms the amount of each spice that is supposed to go into the curry, Sherlock asks 'You never cook. What motivated you today?'

'Dunno.' he dismisses it, not wanting to say _sheer happiness_. 'I wouldn't want to cook everyday, but once in a while it's good to save some money and sodium intake.' he adds, not wanting to say "I know you like this kind of food and I'm more than willing to cater to you right now." because what does this even mean?

It's been some days since the whole resurrection business took place. Mrs. Hudson almost had a heart attack (figuratively, but should be observed, considering her age), Greg had been ecstatic, and Sherlock is adamant that Mycroft only barely didn't pee his pants. John just chooses to believe in him.

Of course it's not overly advertised. There's a small note in the newspaper, saying a mistake took place in the reports. John doesn't volunteer any more information and Mycroft is evicted from the flat when he starts to question too much. He asks Sherlock to make the tea like usual (before the pool) so Mrs. Hudson won't bother, and he sends a text to Greg suggesting not offering work for a little while, as they both just came out as victims from the last case. John just wants to enjoy Sherlock's company and keep it to himself.

He is hesitant to let Sherlock leave his sight. He makes sure to stand nearby whenever he is. He tries not to be so obvious as to follow him room to room, but he does propose a lot of joint activities on a daily basis, like having meals, watching the telly, looking up weird murders on the internet, reading forensic medicine articles.

Even more weirdly than he's aware he is being, it's Sherlock's compliance to all the requests. His behaviour is a bit cathartic, like he feels something is wrong. They talked about what Sherlock remembered, the last thing being pulling the trigger of John's gun. But he doesn't ask for many details after that. John is not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The curry simmers a bit, and he takes a spoonful and offers it to Sherlock's mouth, as his hands are occupied with carrots at the moment. Sherlock accepts it, and hums thoughtfully. 'A bit more of pepper flakes.'

'Nice.' and adds more to the pot.

The other thing is… he doesn't really know the boundaries between them anymore. Sherlock has always been sort of invasive of people's personal space, John's especially, and John is taking advantage of that to keep close. To touch when necessary. When it's not necessary. Sherlock hasn't commented on it, John hasn't really thought about it. He just realises he likes to be close to him, and now he can do that.

They eat their dinner and go watch tv. Big Brother is on, and Sherlock loves reality shows. Well, loves to complain about them, and never stop watching. They like to play the game of what's scripted and what is raw human interaction, who wants to shag whom, who is going to be eliminated next considering the narrative the show builds on them.

'It's good practice to read people, even if their behaviour is very artificial in this kind of environment.' Sherlock says, reclining on the sofa.

John sits down next to him, their legs fully touching. 'Do you think they can fake a persona 24/7 for the cameras?'

'They obviously know the optimal times to turn it on.' And the muscle of his thigh contracts against John's. 'Also, the editing of shows like this are crucial. The most important part of tv I'd say.'

Later, Sherlock takes a shower and John stands by the sink brushing his teeth. Sherlock keeps talking about how easy it is to identify the sexual predators in the reality show house, but the producers just generally opt not to. John gives one or two comments on it with his mouth full of foam.

At 10:15pm, he knows he needs to get to his bedroom as soon as possible. He leans on his side against the wall of the corridor waiting for Sherlock to appear at the doorway of his bedroom, now dressed in pyjamas, carrying the used towel back to the loo. John smiles at him when he does. 'I'm going upstairs now. Good night.'

Sherlock's face is soft, and the curve between his neck and shoulder peeking out of the hem of the t-shirt is still an enticing pink from scrubbing. 'Good night.'

So what if they are more comfortable with each other now? Everyone is content. Domesticity is blissful. Moriarty is dead, and Sherlock is back.

The only issue is what happens everyday at 10:27pm.

-*-

They can't camp on 221B forever. John posts a quick update on his blog saying how they had needed to get away for awhile after the bombings, but they are back and their inbox is open for new cases. Amidst all the usual boring cheating spouses and misplaced belongings, the melting laptop one catches Sherlock's attention. 

It's quite odd and John can't make head or tails of this one, even to write it up. Sherlock is delighted to have something weird to fixate on, and John indulges him. They come back home with chinese takeaway, and sit side by side at the kitchen table, knees touching, and John listens very intently to Sherlock's explanation on the thermodynamics involved in the melting process of different metals.

A case of stolen documents normally wouldn't rank even a 4 on their system, but as Sherlock learned a young woman's career would be forever ruined thanks to the jealousy of her male flatmate, he set them on the run. In fact, the time-sensitive nature of the case makes them literally run around the city the whole day. They find out the flatmate was already at the train station, so Sherlock steals a bus to get them there before the 7pm train.

After delivering the documents to the client, they walk away from the scene to get a cab and avoid being connected to the stolen bus, and John has a hysterical fit of giggling in the middle of the street. He needs to hold onto Sherlock's bicep as his knees get weak from laughter, and Sherlock follows him suit, circling his shoulders to help him into the cab. They were going for the Tube, but John insisted on a cab as it was getting late and he wanted to be home.

What really happened at the Tilly Briggs pleasure cruise is unpublishable even for the internet. Sherlock had wanted to stay overnight at the ship for more evidence, but John convinces him there's really nothing more to add that wasn't there in the morning. They go back home so weirded out they forget to ask for takeaway.

'We can get pizza, and there's a documentary on honour killings at 11pm.' Sherlock proposes as they hang their coats. John's watch reads 10:02pm. 

'Sorry, I'm knocked out. I'll just have some bread and head to bed.' he replies apologetic.

Sherlock looks to the right and back at him. 'Fine. Are you ok?'

'Yeah, sure.' he says quickly as he stalks to the kitchen to collect his piece of bread. Sherlock oscillates in his place, and John feels a pang in his chest. 'Maybe you could record it so we can watch together tomorrow?' 

'Of course.' he nods.

John goes to move past him to the staircase, but not before grasping his nape. 'Good night.'

Sherlock smiles. 'Good night, John.'

-*-

He should have seen it coming from miles away. John has never been the most touchily-free person. None of his previous girlfriends had called him a romantic, or sweet, in fact, more than one considered him neglectful. They said he didn't really pay attention to them. He was accused a handful of times of only barely making an effort for the fun parts of being in a relationship and zero effort for the rest of it.

And still, it takes weeks after the unburial. Weeks of sweet torture, removing more and more space between them until they basically live on top of each other. John is constantly breathing Sherlock's smell, to the point that he could probably follow a trace of it blindfolded. Sometimes, when he's arranging his laundry pile, he finds dark locks over his clothes, mixed with his sparse blond-grey strands of hair and the white-yellow fur.

To add insult to the injury, their new way of interacting makes John stupid. Or even more stupid according to Sherlockian standards, which should not be reference for any average person. At random times of the day he finds himself grinning for _no reason_. If Sherlock is in the room, he tries to cover it with his palm or a misplaced yawn. 

At least involuntary smiles are bearable. A couple times while they were doing something together, like watching tv or wrapping up a case, John had felt his eyes dampening. He never went full crying mode, and he managed to suck up the tears before they fell off, but it's still humiliating to go around crying of joy.

So, really, while he is enough of an idiot to not have expected, he gives himself credit for not being exactly _surprised_. A grateful client had gifted them with a box of fancy chocolates. Sherlock happily stretches over the sofa eating them. John turns the tv on a rare old James Bond marathon he has been waiting for, lifts Sherlock's legs out of the way and sits with them descending right over his lap.

'You sure you're going to eat everything on your own?' John asks, adjusting the volume. 'Just warn me so I can buy some loperamide.'

'You're free to help yourself.' Sherlock replies. He then bundles up on John, with his legs still over John's lap, holding one square of chocolate to his mouth. 'Try it. It's 65%.'

Without looking away from tv, John opens his mouth to accept the chocolate, which is deposited in place. His lips do slightly close on Sherlock's fingers. The flavour is rich and bittersweet, melting against his tongue. Just before he swallows it, the hand that had been offering the chocolate to him takes hold of his jaw and turns his face. His lips meet Sherlock Holmes' closed mouth for the first time.

He closes his eyes and lets it linger. When Sherlock moves away, John clasps both his hands on the sides of his neck and pulls him back, planting several small kisses on him. 'Do you like tongue?' he asks with his eyes still closed.

'Moderately.'

'Ok.' he replies and progresses their activities keeping in mind this new information.

It becomes sort of his new game, trying to find out what Sherlock likes. There is a subtle balance between the exhilarating feeling of thinking about the right question at the right moment, and the thrilling game of trying to guess by himself what is negative and what is a positive response.

Sherlock is quite a physical person, he finds out. Again, the signs were all there for him to deduce it. He uses his whole body during an investigation. He observes, he touches, he smells, he even tastes when applied. Having his whole attention focused on him is overwhelming at times but also… exciting, in a way. John feels like a mold culture in a petri dish, and damned him but he finds this a bit hot.

All the being into each other's space business that they carefully built since the resurrection comes handy now, because the shift in their day-to-day lives is much smoother than it should have been.

But as nothing ever came easily in John's life, one little issue still stands between them.

Usually they go make a mess of Sherlock's bed quite early, so John can make any kind of excuse to slip out. Today they arrive mid-evening from a case where Sherlock had to disguise as a clown. A _clown_! Who could say their lives are as hilarious as John's? John reheats some soup while Sherlock spends a long time in the bathroom washing away the make-up.

It's a bit past 10pm already. He starts to get nervous. He finishes eating and is already washing his bowl at the sink when Sherlock comes behind him to kiss the back of his neck, while resting his huge hands (John might have a thing here but he's not ready to admit it) over his hips.

He twists his face to accept the kiss, but moves away soon. Sherlock frowns. 'Want to come to my room?'

Oh boy. 'Ahn. It's a bit late already-'

'I'm aware we don't know each other _that_ long, but I'm pretty sure you've never been an early sleeper like this before.'

'Yeah, well. Developed new habits. Once my body gets into routine it's hard to break it.'

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him, clearly not satisfied. 'You can sleep on my bed if you want. I'm not tired now but I can join you later.'

John cringes internally, trying not to show anything on his face. "Please don't make it more difficult." he thinks.

'We can definitely try that another day.' he forces what is supposed to be a cheeky smirk. 'But initially I don't sleep well in new environments, so we have to build up a bit on that.' 

'What about me going upstairs?'

'No!'

Sherlock blinks. John wants to beat himself up. He didn't mean to sound so vehement, but he had been startled. 'My bed is smaller.' he adds quickly. 'It wouldn't be comfortable for both of us. Sorry.'

He moves to give him a peck. Sherlock lets him, but doesn't really retribute. 10:21pm. There is no time.

'So, see you in the morning. Good night.'

Sherlock just nods and doesn't reply. John wants to shake him into the joyful state he was before, but he knows he can't help it right now.

-*-

'John?'

He finally removes his second soaking boot. It started pouring out of a sudden and he misjudged the depth of a puddle before stepping on it. His socks are disgusting now. 'Hey Mrs. Hudson.'

She is peeking from the ajar front door of her flat, and she doesn't look pleased. 'Take care with the carpet, would you?'

'Oh. Yeah, sorry.' he scoops up his boots in one hand, holds the grocery bag in another. 'Do you need something?'

'Well, it's just that I went to check the thermostat upstairs and noticed a lot of fur around your door. You two are not getting animals up there, are you?'

He gulps. 'No. Just… aah... There's a cat that lives around the neighbourhood and I've been putting some food for it on the windowsill at night. The wind must have brought the fur.'

She frowns. 'Never took you for a cat person.' she says drily.

'Well, yeah.' he shrugs. 'Are you ok? Did Sherlock do something? You sound a bit… I don't know.'

' _Sherlock_ didn't do anything except coming back from the dead apparently.' she replies curtly, and starts to close the door. 

'Wait!' he surges forward. She looks skeptically at him. 'I realise I haven't been… very kind to you. Since everything happened. I'm sorry for that.'

Finally, her face softens, and she pushes the door a bit more open. 'I accept your apology then. Perhaps you should learn how to ask for help, when needed?'

'Yeah.' he then thinks about the strain he's been putting on himself, and how her advice could be more generally applied. 'Yes, you are right.'

'Go change your socks before you catch a cold, dear. And stop dripping on my carpet.' they smile and move each in their own directions. 'By the way, John?'

He is already on the second step, so he turns to her from over the railing. 'Yes?'

'If you had asked me, I'd have said to take care when dealing with tabby cats. They are very unpredictable, and sometimes the prices are high.' she raises her eyebrows knowingly, and closes the door behind herself, leaving him gaping at her.

Unpredictable is a word.

He goes to his room first. He had almost run out of cat litter, so he'd gone out in the middle of the rain to buy more, along with more dry food. Sherlock had left earlier because Molly had promised him he could use the centrifuge. After she found out her boyfriend had been the one responsible for the bombings (and for blewing them up), she's been more agreeable to Sherlock making his way in the morgue and the lab. John should talk to him about taking advantage of the poor girl, but they are not really on the best terms recently.

John's constant refusal to spend the night with Sherlock without a reasonable explanation is taking quite the toll. He knows the man is trying to connect the pieces of the puzzle, but without the proper data, a highly improbable one for that matter, John has no idea of what solution he will come up with. 

He doesn't know how to tell him. He doesn't know if he will understand, or if he will believe in John. Of course more people know about these things, Mrs. Hudson had been a surprise, but then, lots of people just keep the knowledge an understandable secret. And even if he tells him, or better, _shows_ him what happens, he doesn't know how much that would change since… well, since it works the way it does.

He removes his drenched socks and throws them aside along with the groceries bag, going back downstairs barefoot. He starts out of his skin when he notices Sherlock is sitting on his chair, reading a file.

'Ah, John. Would please sit down?' he gestures to John's chair in front of him, not looking up.

He walks to the chairs, adjusts the pillow and sits. Sherlock still won't meet his eyes. 'A case going on?'

'Of sorts.' he answers. 'This is the coroner's report on my death.'

Ah.

Well, there goes any planning on his part.

'You see, it's very confusing.' his eyes quickly scan the pages, his brow is deeply furrowed, making his nose wrinkle. John wants to smooth it with his fingers. 'For all purposes, my heart had stopped before paramedics were even at the scene. When my body was rescued from the havoc, it was almost all burned. The pictures are actually a bit disturbing. But I'm sure you've seen explosion victims before.'

'And yet.' he continues, finally lifting his head to stare into John's soul. 'You unburied me whole and brought me home.'

A pregnant silence fills the air. John swallows. 'Well, I couldn't just leave you there.'

Sherlock minimally shakes his head, like swapping away a mosquito or a strange thought, and ignores his sad attempt of a joke. 'Not only that, but you seem to have developed strange habits. You hole yourself up at night, lock your bedroom when you leave-'

'Wait, did you try to enter my bedroom?'

'-ecret groceries, you hide your laundry, I hear _scratches_ coming from your room, and-' he finally cuts himself off.

'And?' John motions with his head to encourage him.

'Nothing. You're not taking this seriously.'

'I am taking it very seriously, I assure you. But you were going to say something.'

Sherlock huffs and looks away, appearing embarrassed for the first time. ' _And_ ,' he sighs and his voice drops at least three bars on volume. 'And you are sending me very mixed signals. I'm not sure what we are doing.'

Oh, Sherlock. 'I don't have mixed feelings about you.' he says gently, fists curling around around the armrests of the chair, willing himself to rip the bandaid out so they can be properly English again and just not talk about it. 'You are the one certain thing in my life. I spent 4 hours digging your grave to bring you back and I would do it again.'

'How?' Sherlock leans forward and his face is a giant question mark, although his cheeks did get tinted pink at John's admission. 'How did you do that? What is going on, because I don't understand!'

And John knows it must be painful for him to admit that. 'It's not a simple explanation.'

Sherlock reclines back and throws up his hands. 'Then enlighten me.'

-*-

'Do you think I'll need to get a rabies shot?'

John is finally satisfied with the disinfection of the scratches on Sherlock's hand. They are shallow and only bled right after the attack. 'I don't think I carry rabies. I mean, is it possible to be sick only at night?'

'You are the one who deals with magical cats, I have no idea what the rules are.'

'Hardly magical.' 

'Whatever you say.'

The conversation about everything that truly happened had been a success in John's opinion, considering the whole impossible aspect of it. Sherlock had never seen a tabby cat, but he heard some tales about them. John had mentioned the cadet in Afghanistan, Harry, and even Mrs. Hudson, who apparently has some stories of her own to share.

The challenging is, of course, the fact that everyday at 10:27pm until dawn, John becomes a blond cat. And not even a sentient human cat, but a purely feline one. His human mentality completely leaves him. Sherlock had asked if he remembers the logic in the mornings.

'Not exactly. I do have memories of what I did, but it's more like a movie I watched a long time ago, from a dissociated point of view.' he had replied to Sherlock, who for once was the one drinking his every word.

'Fascinating.'

Sherlock had immediately jumped on the mission of getting to know cat John, who had been locked in his upstairs bedroom the whole time. Problem is, cat John had never seen any human before, and it's not social at all. Sherlock had tried to touch him, and the result is the scratches currently sitting on his hand, and John hiding under the bed the whole night. He had transformed right there in the morning, and had to crawl out full of dust and fur, and ended up rolling over the poop that cat John had released in fear.

Sherlock examines his bandaged hand for a brief second before getting up from the kitchen chair and clapping both hands together. 'Right. We can't let you be in that room forever. I have to buy stuff and do research before the night comes.'

'Are you really going to try that again?' John asks, putting everything back into his first aid kit. 'Doesn't seem prudent.'

'Of course I'm going to try again.' Sherlock says in his best "You are an idiot" voice. 'You are a semi-feral animal, and these things take time. I'm going out.'

'Wait, wait, what stuff are you going to buy?'

'Cat stuff, obviously! I know you are basic, John, but you shouldn't expect a nicely treated cat to survive with a tiny litter tray and a bowl of water.' he's already putting on his coat.

'Why can't I go with you to choose, then?'

'You have poop remains in your trousers.'

'Nice.'

When he comes back to the flat, laundry done, it is to find the place looking like… a cat palace or something. There is a huge cat tree combo of bed-scratcher-tunnel positioned beside the window in such a way that if he is laying on the top bed he can watch the street. A few toys are scattered around, John can see even a plush mouse hidden between the cushions of the sofa, an empty cardboard box under their desk and a godforsaken electric water fountain sits at a corner of the kitchen.

The culprit himself is taking some books from their shelves, carefully calculating and reorganising.

'What is this for?'

'Making space for you, in case you want to hide behind the books. Oh, in that bag over there, get some objects to put over the mantelpiece so you can push them to the floor. I read that cats love doing that.'

He gets closer to inspect the cat tree. The cushion on the bed is screwed in the wood, so it doesn't fall. He moves to do what Sherlock asked. Not only there are several plush and silicone made little toys, but also a super premium type of dry cat food and some sachets of wet food. He whistles. 'Someone is having a nice dinner. Is this salmon?'

'The thing you were buying is very low in protein, no wonder you were in such a bad mood.' he seems satisfied with his work, and steps aside to pile the discarded books against the wall, besides the women magazines. 'I will start with feeding. Stupid of me not thinking about doing that initially. Being a regular and reliable source of food is the best way to gain confidence with a strange animal. I bet that within a week or two eating the good stuff you'll let me approach for light petting. You should also avoid staying in your room for the transformation, we don't know if you'll feel like bolting downstairs, and the socialisation will work better down here. By the way, I moved the sandbox to the bathroom, because cats like mirroring people. Well, I didn't exactly move it, that litter tray is tiny, I bought one with high walls so the sand doesn't get all over the floor. I also bought the biodegradable litter, so we can flush it safely.'

John is stunned, looking around. 'I suppose I feel… pampered?'

'As you should.' he replies, as if it's a matter of fact.

John grins, chest full of love for this charming madman. 'Any chance we can have some fun before 10pm?'

Sherlock stands up, hands on his waist. 'I buy you litter and _that_ is what you think about?

John steps in to occupy his space, holding Sherlock's waist with his arms. He immediately responds by resting both his hands on John's chest. 'You are the best human being I've ever met.' he says nuzzling his nose over Sherlock's, who clutches his shoulders, and kisses his cheek.

'Does that mean you met non-human beings worthy of comparison?' he asks against John's cheek, who giggles madly.

'Not a single one can compare to you.'

-*-

Sandbox in the bathroom is clean, the water fountain is turned on, and cat toys are all dispersed around the living room. The door to the stairs is closed and locked as they keep their own bedroom door open.

John holds Sherlock's face with one hand while pressing kisses on his forehead, both his cheekbones, the side of his nose, his closed eyelid, the corner of his mouth, the tantalising curve of his jaw. Then one, two, three pecks on the full lips. Sherlock has one hand caressing John's scalp and the other resting right over his bare buttock.

'I have to go.' he murmurs against his Addam's apple. Sherlock locks his arms around his shoulder blades.

'You don't _have_ to.'

'We talked about this.'

'Hmm.' he entangles his long legs with John's. 'Let me try again. I told you that you and I are finally friends now.'

John drops all his weight over Sherlock, burying his nose in his neck so his voice comes out muffled. 'It's so weird when you talk about me as a separate entity.'

'So are you staying?'

'You shouldn't have to be sleep deprived to keep up with a cat you know.'

'I will not. I'll sleep right here, and you'll be able to explore the rest of the house if you want. I even hung more rope with a cork stopper tied to it under the kitchen table. You'll be entertained for hours.'

'Wow, my standards are really low these days.' he holds himself up on his elbows to look down at Sherlock, who is pouting. 'Ok, ok, let's do it. But put on some trousers, nobody wants scratches on your balls.'

John turns to lie on his back and watches as Sherlock puts on pyjamas trousers. He himself hasn't bothered with clothes at night for weeks now, since he will lose them in the process anyway. Sherlock crawls back under the duvet, and they lay on their sides, looking at each other. Sherlock peeks over John's shoulder to the digital clock on the bedside table.

'It's 10:26.'

'I can still leave, and you can close the door.'

'Please don't.'

'Ok then.' he sighs, watches Sherlock face while feeling warm all over his body, inside and outside. 'Good night.'

'Good night, John.' his smile is the last thing his human eyes see before the clock turns 10:27pm, and the now familiar sensation of being condensed into a smaller shape takes him over.

big bald clumsy cat at the front.

soft warm under. stretch. smell nice. squeeze with paw.

big bald clumsy cat staring. stare back. no danger. blink.

yawn. get up. elongate spine.

get close to big cat. smell. my smell? nice.

big cat points paw. headbutt paw.

activate fuzzy rooms. big cat mouth stretching wide but not open.

lay down on top of big cat. fuzzy rooms maximum. big cat pet my head.

prrrferct.


End file.
